How Not to Die
by nuclearmse
Summary: In the aftermath of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Natasha needs to find her partner. How will they both recover from their world being turned upside down? How will this change their relationship?
1. Chapter 1

Steve was reluctant to leave her, and Natasha tamped down the desire to snap at him that she could take care of herself. He had saved her life back at Camp Lehigh, and his shy solicitousness was a nice contrast to the hundreds of people who were currently plotting her assassination. It reminded her of Barton's protective streak, the one that she had been threatening to beat out of him for years. Unconsciously, she fingered the arrow charm on her necklace.

"He's ok, you know," Steve interrupted her thoughts. Natasha cocked her head to the side, analyzing the odds that Cpt. Rogers could know more about her partner's whereabouts than she currently did. "Remember, I've met him," he continued. "If there's anyone I've met from SHIELD who could survive what just happened, it's Clint." She treated him to one of her tight-lipped smiles.

"I know." She gazed directly into Steve's eyes, and she watched recognition dawn on him.

"Of course. You're going to go find him. You found where he was when you were in the SHIELD database." He smiled then, and took a small notebook from his pocket. He scribbled something on an otherwise blank page and ripped it out of the book. "If you need to reach me, use this number. Otherwise, I assume I'll see you two soon."

"Since Clint's not here to say it, you bet your ass you will," Natasha said with a small, genuine smile. "Take care, Cap." She raised herself on tiptoes to brush her lips against his cheek.

"You, too, Natasha."

Natasha strolled back to her car, slid into the driver's seat, and waited for Nick, Steve, and Sam to leave. Slipping the disposable phone out of her pocket, she checked for messages. She had blasted a message to Clint on all available channels as soon as they learned about Hydra. To anyone else, it would look like an innocuous text message, but the words, "Come home soon. Everything FUBAR - Neighbor's dog destroyed our yard, work sucks, and cell phone acting up. Need you here," were a warning - get out ASAP, danger is close to home, trust no one in SHIELD, and avoid open communications. She let out a breath she had been holding when she saw Clint had finally replied - "Miss you, too. FUBAR here too. Need a vacation. Make reservations for Italian on Friday." Clint was aware of the danger and wanted to meet her Friday at one of his safehouses.

She reached behind her seat and withdrew the half-dozen white roses wrapped in light blue tissue paper and a large messenger bag. Biting her lip, Natasha pulled her face into a mask as she stepped in front of Coulson's tombstone. "Hey, boss," she whispered. "So we had another regime change the other day, lead by Cap. You would have been all over it. He was in his new suit, the one you helped design. He saved my life. He saved a lot of lives. You would have been proud." She knelt down and put her flowers in the vase. "I'm not going to be able to stop by for a while, so I wanted to bring you these." She kissed her fingertips and placed them on the stone. Instead of going back the way she came, Natasha wove her way between the tombstones and down to the road to the small chapel overlooking a reflecting pool. She greeted the chapel docent with a nod and inquired if there were restrooms, already knowing the answer.

Less than 30 minutes later, she emerged from the bushes behind the chapel, her hair now shorter, curlier, and tinted a mahogany color. She climbed into the battered red pick-up truck parked there and rattled out of the cemetery. Natasha draped a camera bag around her neck, put on a straw hat, and slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses just before parking the truck. Looking like a tourist, she strolled in the Historic Congressional Cemetery, pausing to take snapshots of markers for famous people and waiting for the small number of other visitors to disappear from view as she approached the zinc monument that contained one of her caches of money and documents. Ten minutes later, the package was safely stowed in her messenger bag as she wandered seemingly aimlessly back through the cemetery to her truck.

Near Gaithersburg, Maryland, Natasha negotiated a good deal on a tablet, paid for it in cash, and took it to a Panera Bread. Munching on an Asiago cheese bagel slathered in cream cheese, she used the wifi connection to search for Pennsylvania maps. Within fifteen minutes, she had mapped her route to the little town of Rome, Pennsylvania. Swallowing the end of her bagel and brushing crumbs from her clothing, she swung the bag back over her shoulder. She wanted to drive straight through, and with a full tank of gas in the truck and a large Styrofoam cup of coffee in the cupholder, she navigated the truck onto the northbound freeway ramp. She whirled the tuner in the truck until she found a public radio station playing classical music, and she choreographed ballet steps to it in her head to keep her mind off the tumult of the past few days.

When she crossed the Susquehanna River in Towanda, her unconscious memory and stellar sense of direction took over and she navigated her way up and down hills and along winding back roads to the safehouse she'd been to only twice before. She pulled into the ancient driveway, distinct from the yard only due to the gravel in scattered patches. She slid out of the bench seat of the truck, pulling her messenger bag, and picked her way carefully up the rickety wooden steps onto the dusty porch. She had to yank on the battered screen door to pull it free and find the small security pad.

Natasha trudged up the squeaky stairs to the second floor. Toeing off her shoes, she slid between the cool sheets of the queen-size bed, not bothering to shed her clothes. The last rays of the setting sun came through the window and illuminated the nightstand. Natasha reached over and picked up the framed photograph of her and Clint that sat there. Her other hand went to her necklace. She fell asleep that way - the photo in one hand, her arrow necklace in the other, and her lips murmuring prayers to a God she wasn't sure she believed in, asking him to bring Clint safely to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha pounded on the walls of the glass elevator with her fists, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Clint! Move, dammit!" Her partner, oblivious to the danger, fired another arrow into the throat of an attacking Hydra agent. He turned then and saw her, giving her a nod of acknowledgment and a cocky wink just before a chunk of the Helicarrier crashed where he was standing. "Clint!" She wailed, sinking to her knees.

Natasha awoke with a sharp intake of breath and the sheets of the bed clenched in her fists. She released them and wiped her sweaty palms on the quilt. Throwing the covers off, she changed out of her rumpled clothes from the day before and threw on a pair of leggings, t-shirt, and running shoes. She checked the thermometer that hung outside the window and rooted around in the dresser drawers to find a gigantic dark green sweatshirt emblazoned "Temple Bar - Dublin." She slipped the sweatshirt over her head and saw Clint in her mind's eye leaning against the door frame with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. "For someone who 'hates sweatshirts," you sure borrow mine a lot," he smirked.

"For someone who's never cold, you buy a lot of sweatshirts. You should be glad that they're getting use," she would retort as she brushed him on her way past.

Natasha surveyed her face as she brushed her hair into a pony tail at the bathroom mirror. Her expression remained one of boredom or slight distaste, concealing the emotions that boiled below the surface. _Emotions_, her Red Room training sneered. She'd gotten a crash course in emotions since the day she met her partner. "Damn you, Clint Barton."

At the edge of the driveway, she tightened her running shoes, clipped her phone to her sports bra, and sprinted off. She alternated between jogging and running, all the while assessing every sore muscle and healing bruise. Her mental inventory of her recovery from the Hydra attack kept her mind busy. She drew the pine-scented air deep into lungs and smiled unconsciously, relishing the silence of a misty rural morning. Natasha ran on through the fog that was still hanging over the rolling hills and valleys like a specter, her innate sense of direction leading her pounding feet in a loop that would bring her back around to the house in a few miles. The mist turned to light rain, and she broke her perfect rhythm just long enough to flip the sweatshirt hood over her head. When she climbed a steep rise and could see the house through the morning veil, Natasha started her cool-down, slowing to a jog and then to a walk.

"Mrs. Parker? Tess? That you?" a voice called out. Natasha froze, looked to her left, and spotted a figure sitting on a bench. The old man was so cocooned in dark blankets that blended with the weather-beaten paint of the sagging farmhouse that he was camouflaged.

She cocked her head and pulled the sweatshirt hood down. "Mr. Brown?" Natasha had met Clint's ancient neighbor on her first visit to the cabin. Mr. Albert Brown, nicknamed Brownie, had been born in his farmhouse eighty-nine years ago, and, as he proudly told anyone who would listen, he hadn't slept a night anywhere else since he was honorably discharged from the Army as a young man. He kept an eye on his neighbor's cabin for them, neighbors he knew as Tess and Aaron Parker.

"It is you! Your husband back yet?"

"No, he's still away on business. He'll be here later this week."

"You need anything, you let me know. Brownie worries about ladies being all by themselves in this day and age. I was just reading about a home invasion 'bout 5 miles over yonder. When I was a boy, we didn't even lock our doors on this mountain."

"I'll let you know. I'm going to go out for groceries later today. Do you need anything?" Natasha offered.

"Nah. My daughter's out shopping now, and then we're going to my great-grandson's first birthday party this afternoon."

* * *

Natasha's shopping trip filled her morning and early afternoon. She dropped the bags of groceries on the large dining room table and checked her phone for any updates. _Nothing_. She started a stock pot of soup broth on the stove and then pulled her phone out of her pocket to see if she had a message from Clint. _Still nothing_. Emptying the plastic bags, she filled the refrigerator and freezer with staples like milk, butter, bread and orange juice, as well as a few extras - some dark chocolate Dove bars for her and Snickers ice cream bars for her partner. He loved Snickers, so she assumed he would appreciate them in an ice cream form at least as much. She arranged the dry goods in the pantry, stopping in the middle of stacking snack crackers to look at her phone. She was convinced she had felt its vibration inside her pocket. Of course her phone remained stubbornly the same. She chided herself. Worrying wasn't going to make her partner arrive any faster, and he had more than two whole days before he could even be expected. Natasha turned up the ring tone and laid her phone on the table. Covering her hair with one of Clint's old bandanas, she dragged the cleaning supplies out from under the kitchen sink. There were a lot of dust bunnies and cobwebs to chase out of the corners of the house and her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha, her sweaty curls still contained in the bandana, dropped onto the dining room bench. The cabin was spotless. She picked up her glass of lemonade, resting it against her forehead and allowing the condensation to cool her brow. After taking a long drink of the icy liquid, she flipped open Clint's laptop and fired it up. Within an hour, Natasha closed the laptop again, smirking to herself. She was untangling her hair in front of the bathroom mirror when her cell phone rang. Natasha answered the call to hear Maria Hill's low chuckle.

"Nice work," Maria commented. "Stark is beside himself with 'It's a Small World' playing on loop in his lab. It was no trouble at all to get away from the office."

"Diversion is part of my skill set." The assassin replied while another smirk crossed her features. Then her hand went to the arrow charm on her necklace and she was all business. "I want in."

"I assumed as such from your message. I can get what you need to you tomorrow fairly early if you can get to Ithaca, New York. I'll send an encrypted message with the details when I confirm them."

"Ithaca's doable. I appreciate it."

"And on a personal note," Maria surprised Natasha with those words. The only SHIELD agent with a reputation for being colder and more clinical than Natasha Romanoff was Maria Hill. "I was hoping you would call. I'm glad you're okay. It's good to work with you again."

Natasha raised her eyebrows. She knew she was quite the asset in hunting HYDRA agents, but Maria Hill of SHIELD didn't give compliments, only orders. The fall of SHIELD was causing all sorts of unexpected consequences. "Same here."

* * *

Natasha lid into clean jeans, a tank top, and another of Clint's sweatshirts, this one emblazoned "Austria – We don't have kangaroos." She fixed herself a plate of crackers, cheese, and fruit and placed it on a tray along with a wine glass, a bottle of Chardonnay, and a book. She bumped the door open with her hip and stopped short. "Well, hello there," she said softly. "You can stay, **кошка**." The calico cat jumped off the chair and backed up to the corner of the porch and eyed her warily. "Suit yourself," Natasha said with a shrug. She set the tray down on the wide arm of one of the two porch chairs and took a seat.

Pouring herself a glass of the chardonnay, the assassin resumed reading her book. She hoped to finish it before Clint arrived. Even though Natasha felt the genre label on the spine was a misnomer – paranormal, yes; romance, not so much – she knew her partner would never let her live down reading a romance novel. She popped a cube of Swiss cheese in her mouth and felt something warm brush her other arm. The calico cat had hopped into the other porch chair and was sniffing the assassin cautiously. Natasha slowly moved her hand to the cat's back and gently petted her. The cat purred. Over the next hour, the cat, still purring, crept onto Natasha's lap while she read and nibbled.

_Bzzt. Bzzt._ The calico puffed up and jumped off Natasha's lap. "It's ok, **кошка," **she reassured the cat as she scanned Maria's message.

* * *

Natasha awoke extra early so that she could get in her run before driving up to Ithaca. The calico cat opened her eyes when Natasha stepped onto the porch, but she didn't bother moving from the chair cushion. "And good morning to you, too," the assassin smirked.

She was in Ithaca by a little after 8 am. The coordinates lead her to a hotel whose sign proudly proclaimed, "Welcome Stark Industries Green Energy Conference Attendees." Sitting in the Starbucks across the street, Natasha quickly read up on the details of the conference and examined floor plans of the hotel. Pepper was giving the welcoming address, which would explain Hill being here. The easiest plan seemed to be to check in as a conference attendee and look for her opportunity to catch Hill alone. She might have to sit through some presentations, but all Natasha needed to do was don her suit jacket and some pearl jewelry, and she would blend in. Natasha parked her truck near one of the back doors of the convention center and strode confidently towards the front door.

A red sports car skidded to a stop the hotel's circular driveway, and Natasha froze on the spot. As Tony Stark exited the car and straightened the lapels of his suit, she slid along the wall back towards the truck. "Damn you, Stark," she muttered. With Tony and his penchant for headline-making, this place would be crawling with reporters and cameras within minutes. Even if she could hide from Stark, she wouldn't bet on concealing herself from the media. Shedding her jacket and jewelry back in the truck, Natasha formulated a new plan. She traded out her heels for tennis shoes and snuck back towards the loading dock.

Two housekeepers were smoking on the loading dock and gossiping in rapid-fire Spanish. She listened carefully to their conversation and identified their accents as Puerto Rican. Natasha tucked her hair behind her ears and shyly interrupted, "_¡perdón!"_ In fluent but Mexican-accented Spanish, she asked the housekeepers if there was any work at the hotel.

The older woman, probably in her late 50s, held up a finger and ducked her head inside the door. "Senor Quinn, there is a girl here looking for work."

A man wearing a suit stepped out. "Come up here, girl. What's your name?"

"Josefina," Natasha lied shyly.

"You need a job?"

She nodded eagerly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear again. "_Si."_

You speak English?"

"A little," Natasha maintained her Mexican accent. "I work cheap."

"With two call-offs today, I could use the help. Ana, show her the ropes."

Ana had zero interest in her new protégé, so in no time at all, Natasha convinced her that, yes, she knew the routine of cleaning a hotel room. As soon as Ana sauntered down the hallway with cigarette and lighter in hand, the spy pushed her cart straight to the service elevator and rode to the top floor. She stashed the laundry cart in a supply closet and scanned the area. That Pepper would be in the nicest suite was a no-brainer – she was sponsoring the conference – but Hill would insist on her own room for privacy. Observing the layout of the floor and considering what she knew of Hill, Natasha narrowed down her options to just three doors. She knocked lightly on the first one before calling out "housekeeping." The room was unoccupied.

On the second room, Natasha hit paydirt. The chain was engaged, but through the crack of the door, she could see Hill's suits hanging up. She cocked her head to the side: she could hear the shower running. The assassin made short work of the chain, snuck inside, and secured the door behind her. Natasha poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down on the bed to wait.

Maria Hill burst out of the bathroom, clad in a terrycloth robe with her hair twisted in a towel atop her head, her sidearm in her hands. Seeing the figure on her bed, she set the gun down on the dresser with a sigh. "Really, Romanoff?" she asked.

Natasha shrugged, her eyes twinkling. "Once Stark came in, I couldn't risk him seeing me."

"Yeah, he decided to join us at about 3 am. Fine. Whatever," Hill huffed. She dropped her suitcase on the bed, flipped it open, and removed the clothes. "I swear you get more like your partner every day." She unzipped a make-up bag and extracted a lipstick case. "Everything you need to access the database is on here. Stark will know you're in, but we've programmed the system to prevent anyone from tracing someone's whereabouts without Stark, Captain Rogers, and myself approving it. If we don't know where you are, we can't lead anyone to you."

"Smart." Natasha commented with an approving nod. She stood to leave. Hill cleared her throat, and Natasha raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow at her.

"You heard from Barton?"

Natasha bit her tongue to keep herself from snapping at Hill. The question was a perfectly reasonable one for the former assistant director to ask, but it made Natasha's blood run hot. "He's contacted me. He seems fine."

"Good," Hill nodded. "We've lost too many good people to HYDRA. I'm glad we didn't lose the two of you."

Natasha just bobbed her head once in agreement before saying. "I'll be in touch."

Back in the truck, Natasha rumbled into a drive through to pick up some coffee. The whole time, she interrogated herself. _What the hell was that back there?_ She turned the conversation with Hill over and over in her head, analyzing the burning anger she felt when the other woman asked about her partner. The fiery rage, she finally admitted, was jealousy. She was jealous of another woman asking about her partner. Natasha Romanoff inclined her head until her forehead rested on the steering wheel. "Боже мой." She really needed to get her troublesome emotions in check before Clint showed up.


	4. Chapter 4

As Natasha sipped her coffee, her stomach gurgled. She glanced at the clock and realized that she hadn't eaten anything since the previous evening. She surveyed the greasy takeout places as she rolled past in the truck. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

After another five miles, Natasha pulled off at a little Mom and Pop grocery store that advertised a deli. She hung a small plastic grocery basket over arm and stopped off in the tiny toiletries section for some of Clint's razors and a new bottle of mouthwash. The merchandise was stacked floor to ceiling on metal shelves that predated the Cold War. Old-fashioned metal signs hung from the low ceiling, and the deli counter was packed. Everyone else seemed to know one another. She took her place quietly at the end of the line, right behind the two elderly ladies who were showing off photographs of their great-grandchildren. She found herself in the pet supplies section. Her eyes scanned the products. After a moment, she reached out and grabbed a bag of cat food. She dropped it in her basket before she could change her mind. The cat would help Clint cope. He liked animals. She ordered, paid, and took her purchases to the truck. Natasha wanted somewhere quieter to eat and think.

Natasha pulled the truck off the road and onto the small gravel and dirt parking pad. She slithered out of the truck soundlessly and pushed the door shut. Other than the pinging of the truck engine as it cooled down, the only sounds around her were bird calls and rustling leaves. The rusty iron gate protested at first and then gave way. She stepped carefully between the tombstones and weeping willow trees until she reached a small, shaded stone bench at the back of the cemetery. Sitting cross-legged on the bench so she could use it as a table, Natasha unwrapped her sandwich and spread out the butcher paper as a placemat. While she chewed the roast beef and Swiss cheese, her eyes traced the eroding lines of the stones that surrounded her. Cemeteries, the spy had found, made most people uncomfortable. They shied away from spending time with monuments to human mortality, making a graveyard an ideal place to be alone, unseen and uninterrupted. She remembered her last trip to a cemetery with Clint.

* * *

_A few months ago…_

Clint raked his fingers through his light, spiky hair and stared down at the stone. "I still can't believe it," he whispered, mostly to himself. Back from their decompression time in a safehouse, she and her partner had come to visit Coulson's grave. The first shoots of grass had popped out of the flattened earth.

"I know." Natasha inched closer to Clint, and her small, pale hand reached for his. Their fingers intertwined, and the two partners stood, silent, gazing at the final resting place of their handler. "He died in the line of duty," Natasha finally murmured. "You know that's what he would have wanted."

"I do," Clint nodded. "Doesn't mean I have to like it. Still wish I could have put an arrow in that bastard's eye."

"I think after the Asgardians get done with Loki, he'll be wishing you had."

Clint grinned slightly at the thought, as he had when she'd suggested something similar when they watched Loki return to Asgard as Thor's prisoner. "I can only hope so." He stepped forward and patted Coulson's tombstone with his hand. "Later, boss." Natasha squeezed his hand again reassuringly. Wordlessly, they walked hand-in-hand back to her flashy red sports car.

"Hungry?" Natasha asked as she put the car in gear.

Clint nodded, and then he did a fair impression of Coulson. "I know a great little Italian place."

"I bet I know the same one."

The waitress seated them at their usual table on the patio, overlooking the water. No other diners were outside. Clint poured them both glasses of sangria from the pitcher. Natasha sipped hers while Clint stared into the vibrantly-colored liquid. "He brought me here when he first recruited me," he said softly. "Paid out of his own pocket. Said that was so he knew we were out to dinner as friends, not as a recruit and his handler. Used to come back here whenever I got a promotion or commendation." Clint drained half of his sangria. "Hell, you know that. You came with us a few times." Natasha nodded in feigned understanding and laid her hand over Clint's on the table. While she trusted Coulson more than any other man she'd ever taken orders from, her relationship to him remained professional. Clint's relationship to Coulson was different. His deep filial bond with their handler pre-dated her arrival in SHIELD. Coulson didn't just recognize the potential of the circus performer turned freelance assassin; he recognized Clint, the human being. "He…he believed in me. He offered me a chance when no one else would. I'm pretty sure he saved my life. You know what I mean?"

That Natasha did understand. She met his eyes and smiled slightly. "You know that I do."

Clint's cheeks colored slightly and he dipped his head to hide a sheepish smile. He'd been doing that more lately – giving her goofy smiles at odd intervals. Natasha blinked. He cleared his throat. "So they're assigning you to Cap?"

Natasha tipped back her sangria, sipped, and nodded. "Fury said that he's still struggling with adjusting the modern world and thinks I can help him."

Clint chuckled. "Cap-sitting. Think that's easy or harder than cat-sitting?"

Taking another drink, Natasha shrugged. "Don't know. I know it's got to be a damn sight easier than Stark-sitting." She smirked at her own joke. "Fury is sending you back out. That's a good sign. And it'll be good for you to get back in the game." Clint nodded. "You and Kim are headed for eastern Europe?"

It was Clint's turn to shrug. "We're starting in Kiev because that's where the intelligence says the targets are. From there on, it'll be up to Agent Kim and her high tech equipment to lead the way."

"You're going to be gone a while," she observed. "Who's handling the mission?"

"Pete Peterson." Clint frowned. "I don't like the guy. Who names their kid something like that, and who keeps going by that name when he's an adult? And his handshake is clammy." He gave an exaggerated shiver.

After dinner, Natasha drove Clint home. She stopped her car in the unloading zone in front of his building. Clint reached for the door handle, paused, and then turned back to his partner. "You wanna come up, Tash?" he offered hopefully.

A hint of a smile played across her lips. "Are you going to make it worth my while?"

"I've got dark chocolate, red wine, and some superspy movies we can mock."

"You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl, Hawkeye." She teased, her voice low and relaxed.

Two hours later, she took another swallow of her wine and muttered, "oh, come on" at the screen as hero made yet another unbelievable escape. Clint sat in the middle of the daybed, his feet resting on the low, scuffed coffee table in front of it. Natasha sat perpendicular to him, reclining against the large pillows against one side, her legs draped over his. "How can you watch this stuff with a straight face?"

"Alcohol. Lots of it." He held up the nearly-empty wine bottle and shook it. "More?"

"Please."

A vibrating cell phone startled Natasha awake. Eyes still closed, she reached over to the TV tray and picked up her phone. It was still.

"It's mine," Clint said softly, propping his head up on one elbow and reaching across her for his phone. She felt the rumble of his voice through her body and realized that at some point during the night, he had shifted so that they were now sharing one of the large pillows. Mere inches separated his chest from her back, and their legs were entangled. He flipped the phone open. "Barton." He mostly listened, occasionally acknowledging something being said with a "yes, sir."

When he closed the phone and dropped it back on the TV tray, neither of them spoke. His free left arm snaked around Natasha until it found her left hand. He squeezed her hand.

"You have to go," Natasha said matter-of-factly.

Clint's head bobbed once in acknowledgement. "Somebody else made a run at our targets last night. The situation's changed. Sorry to run out on you." With that he pulled her body flush against his in a sort-of hug.

Natasha's body went rigid as she became all-too-aware of Clint's muscled form molded to her own. She scolded herself. _This is your partner. This is Clint. What's so different about this embrace from all the ones before it?_ They had posed as a couple on dozens of missions and shared a bed for both cover and comfort hundreds of times. She inhaled, exhaled, and focused on relaxing.

"You okay, Tasha?" Clint asked.

"Yes," she lied.

"You can go back to sleep while I shower and pack."

Natasha pulled into the circular driveway in front of the SHIELD office. She popped the trunk and Clint dropped his bag on the sidewalk before embracing her. "You be careful. Don't let that Captain get you into too much trouble," he whispered in her ear. Then he did something unexpected. He pressed a kiss just in front of her ear. "Bye, Tasha."

"Good luck, Clint. Kim should keep you in line. I helped train her. I'll see you soon."

Natasha leaned against the trunk as he scooped up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. He gave her a jaunty salute just before he pushed open the revolving door. She stood there another minute, turning the last 24 hours over in her head. At the stop sign, she glanced right and noticed the little black velvet box, almost the same color as her leather upholstery. She pulled into the next empty parking lot and pulled over. Holding the box gingerly, Natasha opened it. A tiny silver chain with an arrow pendant on it lay against the black velvet interior. With trembling fingers, she extracted the necklace and fastened it around her neck. Natasha flipped down the visor and gazed at her reflection in the small mirror. The silver arrow rested in the hollow of her throat, nearly invisible. She took in her porcelain skin and green eyes, staring back at her devoid of expression. Despite its horrors, the Red Room training had one distinct benefit: no one could tell by looking at her just how utterly compromised she was.


	5. Chapter 5

The calico cat trilled at Natasha as she tapped her security code into the door. The cat stretched her neck and managed to rub the top of her head on the spy's hip, and Natasha scratched between the calico's ears with her free hand. The door swung open, and the cat hopped inside and gazed up imploringly at Natasha. The redhead glared, but the calico just wound around her feet as the first fat drops of rain splattered on the tin porch roof. "Okay," the spy said out loud. "Just for the storm." Her admission in the house approved, the cat trotted up the stairs to explore. Once Natasha was ensconced on the sofa with the laptop and a steaming mug of tea, the calico cat materialized and curled up next to her.

Natasha used the jump drive information to access the secured Stark Industries network Hill was using. As soon as the system checked her credentials, a message popped up on her screen: "Another StarkNet user has sent you a message. Please select if you would like to continue this conversation by text or voice."

Natasha clicked voice, and a polite British-accented voice greeted her. "Good afternoon, Miss Romanoff. It is a pleasure to see you again, so to speak."

She recognized the voice instantly. "Good afternoon, Jarvis. I should have guessed that you would be part of any Stark Industries network."

"Indeed, Miss Romanoff. Most users on the system communicate with me via text-based searches, but as we are acquainted, I wanted to let you know I am at your disposal. We have videos, still photographs, voice recordings, and electronic messages culled from SHIELD's security network, as well as the files in the database. Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers, and Ms. Hill are attempting to reconstruct the timeline and determine the fate and allegiances of unaccounted-for SHIELD personnel." Jarvis paused. When Natasha said nothing, the AI continued. "I've been running facial recognition software to index videos and photographs. Captain Rogers suggested you might wish to start with Agent Barton's last mission. I can pull those materials if you like."

Natasha's heart pounded in her chest. If she hadn't received a message from her partner confirming his safety and more or less good health, she would have reviewed the files in a heartbeat. If she skimmed the files on Clint's last mission, she might be better prepared to handle him when he arrived. But Clint, like Natasha, was a very private person, and looking at his last mission rather than letting him tell her about it in his own words and good time felt like prying. She bit her lip before answering, "No, thank you. I probably have information to add to the list based on what I saw in the Triskelion." Natasha kept her voice level while she asked. "Jarvis, is there a way to lock Agent Barton's last mission file so that no one else can view it?"

Jarvis didn't answer for a full 15 seconds. "I will mark the file as checked out to you. That will prevent anyone else from viewing it."

An hour and a half later, Natasha's fingers finally stopped tapping on the keyboard. "I think that's enough for today," she said, not sure whether she was telling the cat, Jarvis, or herself. "Clint should be here soon." She logged out of the computer and removed the jump drive, replacing it in the lipstick case, which she then tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She ushered the cat outside to do its business and then leaned on the porch rail, watching the rutted road until it disappeared over the next hill. The few clouds in the sky were tinted pink and orange from the sunset. Natasha's slim fingers plucked her novel from the porch chair and opened it to the receipt she was using as a bookmark. She stared at the pages, unseeing, as the sound of a distant truck engine penetrated her consciousness. The rattling got closer, and louder, and she replaced the receipt. Her hand closed around the gun in the front pocket of Clint's sweatshirt, and she paused at the corner of the house as the truck rolled into the gravel drive and shuddered to a stop.

Clint sighed as he put in the truck in park, and even through the windshield, Natasha observed the dejected slump of his shoulders. His hair was mussed, and his entire appearance was disheveled and depressed. Of course he would take what happened hard, she realized. SHIELD was Clint's family. Clint glanced quickly around, assessing potential threats, and his lips curved into a slight smile when he spotted his partner on the porch. He pushed open the truck door, letting gravity slam it closed behind him, and trudged up the steps. Releasing the gun inside her pocket, Natasha met him with her feet on the top of the steps. Clint was two steps lower when he wrapped his muscular arms around her and crushed her to his chest. "Tasha," he murmured, inhaling the familiar scent of her. Natasha's arms encircled his abdomen. They held each other for a long minute. Finally, Clint leaned back enough that she could examine his face.

"You look like death warmed over," Natasha whispered. She brought her hand up to Clint's ashen cheek and examined the dark circles under his eyes. "Food first or sleep first?" Clint frowned, his lips parted, and she put her hand over his mouth. "No arguments, Barton. Food or sleep?" Before he could answer, he yawned under her fingers. "Sleep it is."

Natasha gently turned Clint towards the door and trailed behind her stumbling partner, locking the door and activating the security stem. Upstairs, Clint collapsed on the bed and then struggled to unlace his combat boots. Natasha kicked off her sneakers and then bent to help him, finally pushing away his hands and pulling his boots off his feet by herself. He crawled under the covers still fully clothed. She walked as far as the end of the bed when Clint's voice croaked, "Tash?" He held open the sheet in invitation. "I'm cold," he lied. Clint Barton was a human furnace.

The redhead allowed a ghost of a smile to cross her face. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and draped it on the laundry basket. As soon as she had rolled onto the bed, Clint's open arms engulfed her, pulling her back against his chest. Natasha's right fingers entwined with Clint's over her stomach.

"Missed you," he mumbled into her hair, seconds before he began to snore softly. Natasha closed her eyes, sank back a little further into Clint's embrace, and allowed sleep to take her.


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha awoke at the sudden drop in temperature. Her fingers clawed for another blanket. Then, recalling the events of the previous evening, she sat up. The sheets held residual heat, but Clint wasn't behind her, and her pulse increased.. She slowed her breathing, closed her eyes, and listened. She heard running water in the tiny bathroom and fell back onto her pillow. She watched through half-closed eyelids as her partner staggered back into the bedroom and lowered himself gingerly onto the mattress. He winced and flexed the fingers of his left hand involuntarily as his torso made contact with the bed . Natasha propped herself up on an elbow, and he rolled his head so they were looking at one another. They stared for a moment before he gave her a wan smile. "Mornin', Tash," he said with forced cheeriness.

"You're injured," she observed. "You should have told me last night." She steeled herself for the inevitable argument, but Clint surprised her.

"You're right," he surrendered, his voice flat and his eyes lowered. "I should have."

Natasha raised a well-manicured eyebrow but said nothing else. She systematically examined him, feet to head. There were a few healing cuts and bruises on his lower extremities, but his upper body was a mess. Even though she kept her prodding as gentle as she could, Clint's sharp intakes of breath as she ran her hands over his purpling abdomen confirmed that he had at least one broken rib. He had cleaned and stitched up the knife wounds he could reach, but there were long, angry slashes puffy and pink with potential infection on his back. She retrieved her med kit from the bathroom and laid it next to him on the bed. Natasha cleaned the deep cuts while Clint lay there, silent and stoic, the only clue to his pain the way he clenched his fists each time she poured alcohol onto another wound. "You don't usually let someone get close enough to use a knife," she murmured.

"You should have seen the other guy," he grunted dryly. He squeezed his eyes closed and lapsed back into silence.

Natasha's throat was tight as she applied antibiotic ointment to the wounds. Clint's body was rigid in his determination not to flinch at the pain. She finally capped the tube with, "That's it." Her partner said nothing. "I was going to make some breakfast," she offered.

"'m not hungry," he mumbled, curling up into a ball.

Natasha prayed that the smell of brewing coffee would rouse Clint from his stupor. As she scrambled together the eggs, bacon, and potato, the Russian listened for footsteps descending the stairs. She couldn't remember the last time she had fried bacon without having to shoo Clint away and threaten him with cooking utensils. She had stabbed him once with a fork, not hard enough to break the skin, to show she meant business. She never would have dreamed that someday she would miss his impertinent smirk as he dodged her and shoved another slice of stolen bacon in his mouth.

Clint remained in the fetal position, eyes open and staring into space, when she returned to the bedroom with breakfast. He took the plate when she commanded him to do so. Bringing the fork mechanically to his mouth, he consumed five or six bites before whispering, "Thanks, Nat," and depositing the plate on the night stand. He stared morosely into space while she ate her breakfast.

Natasha cleaned up after breakfast with a lump in her throat. She had to psych herself up before returning to the bedroom. Pasting a smile on her face, she went to her partner's side of the bed and suggested, "It's time for my morning run. I'll slow it down to a jog or even a walk for the broken old man..." Her teasing of him about his age fell flat.

Clint's eyes met hers for a split second, and the emotional pain in his face staggered her. He shook his head. "No...but you should go."

"Clint, I -" her voice faltered. What was the point in arguing with him? She had never seen him look this rough - not when he'd gotten hypothermia, not the time he'd ended up in a coma for 2 weeks, not even the time he'd almost bled out on her lap. Those injuries had been physical and he'd pushed through the pain, but the blow he'd been dealt with the fall of SHIELD was emotional and psychological. She had no idea what to do or say. She was shit with emotions.

His rough voice interrupted her thoughts. "Go for your run. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, unsure she could speak to answer. She changed into her workout clothes in silence and laced up her sneakers.

Ten minutes later, her feet pounding on the asphalt, Natasha retreated into the isolation of her sweatshirt hood. No, she corrected herself, Clint's sweatshirt hood. No matter how she tried to distract herself, she kept thinking about the haunted look in her partner's eyes as he slid further into his depression. She had no idea what the hell she could do to help him. As she crested another small hill and looked at the rising sun, she blinked at the sudden blurriness in her vision. It took her a split-second to realize that she was crying. Using the cuff of the sweatshirt, she wiped away the silent tears that were dampening her cheeks. She had a half-mile left inside the anonymity of the hunter green sweatshirt hood to indulge in her emotions before focusing back on her current mission. Having a mission, a goal, got her up every morning. She ignored that taking care of Clint was a self-assigned mission.


	7. Chapter 7

As the hot shower water cascaded down her body, the part of Natasha's mind that had never shaken off the Red Room scolded her. Clint Barton was a grown man, a highly trained soldier and assassin. If he wanted to wallow in misery and depression, she didn't have to stay and watch, it insisted. _Leave him; leave behind the weak and helpless_. No, Natasha shook her head as if it would dislodge the instinct that bubbled up from her Red Room past: _don't leave him. Kill him_.

Clad in her robe, she padded back into the bedroom. Clint had fallen back to sleep, his breathing steady but his brow still furrowed in pain and anxiety. She sat down on the bed, and her partner stirred, whimpering in his sleep. Clint tossed again in his sleep until his head lay cradled in her lap. He stilled as her porcelain hand gently stroked his hair. She gazed down through her lashes at Clint. All her Red Room training be damned, she knew she wouldn't abandon him, and she sure as hell wouldn't kill him. And she knew why.

* * *

Several years earlier in Kiev…

The Black Widow crawled out the ground level window, her head swiveling back and forth to verify that her escape had not been discovered yet. Ignoring the agony in her shoulder, she pushed herself up until she was able to stagger into a stand. She had to put some distance between herself and her captors, and she forced herself to run down the alley. She added slices on her nylon-clad feet to the tally of injuries. Two blocks later, she stumbled and fell, the road grit scraping skin from her knees. She put her good hand on the ground to leverage herself back up and…

"It's over, Widow," a voice said in Russian. The Black Widow raised her green eyes to find herself staring down the shaft of an arrow. She followed the length of the outdated weapon up to the bowman. Well-built, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses – American, she surmised. Not who she had been running from. Just her dumb fucking luck. She gets double-crossed and nearly crossed off, gets away, and runs into someone else who has her number. She steadfastly stared at him as she accepted her fate. Considering her training and line of work, it wasn't like she had expected to live long. She had resigned herself to this death and was starting to wonder why she was still breathing when the bowman spoke again. He cocked his head to the side, inspecting her. "You look like you've had a pretty bad day."

The Black Widow blinked. What the hell kind of assassination was this? "You could say that," she retorted dryly.

"From what I saw, your Russian masters rented you out to a couple of Ukrainian mobsters who decided it was cheaper to kill you then pay you after you eliminated all of the competition. That about right?" She blinked again. What was the point of all this chatter? He stared at her expectantly, and she finally bobbed her head in a tiny nod.

"Tell you the truth, I'm not even sure it was a double cross. I think you were set up by your bosses."

"You lie," she hissed, but the words felt false as soon as she uttered them. The puzzle pieces snapped together, and she knew that his observation had to be true. She'd gone from prize pupil to problem over the past year. Her dangerously clever mind had started applying the Red Room's principles against her training, and though the Black Widow tried desperately to conceal her traitorous thoughts, she feared she was unsuccessful. She was a tool who had outlived her usefulness, and today's mission was an attempt to discard her.

He shook his head. "No reason for me to lie. So you're just a rat in a trap, aren't you?" He didn't wait for her answer. "You want to get out of that trap?"

It was pure survival instinct that made her nod.

"Okay." He lowered his bow and put it over his shoulder. With one hand on a knife on his belt, he extended the other one to help her up. "Name's Clint. You try to kill me or escape and the deal is off." As the bowman pulled her to her feet, they heard pounding footsteps and angry voices shouting in Ukrainian. The Black Widow allowed her new ally to pull her between two dumpsters. He had his bow back in his hands in a flash, an arrow nocked on the string. He took out the first two men into the alley, but as ten more poured in, the archer was outnumbered. The men fanned out, pinning them down, and the bowman spent as much time dodging bullets as he did firing.

"Give me your sidearm," Natasha hissed behind him, transitioning into English. "I have an idea." Without hesitation, her rescuer/captor tossed it to her. He took out another one of their attackers with an arrow to the throat. "Keep them distracted," she instructed.

Natasha's shoulder screamed as she slithered between the brick wall and the back of the dumpster, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on. She emerged low to the ground and on the goons' flank, taking three down in her first barrage of fire. When she and the archer were the only ones left standing, she sagged against the dumpster.

"Okay, that's going to attract some attention. We gotta go." she vaguely heard the bowman say, and the next thing she knew she was being pulled up behind him on a motorbike. She clung to her new ally as he navigated the bike down alleys. She closed her eyes against the pain she was feeling.

The Black Widow opened her eyes again when the motorbike throttled down. Clint parked next to old stone church. He stepped off the bike and waited for her. She stood gingerly, and he looked her over. "You look rough," he whistled. Her eyes met his, and she was surprised to find them almost…concerned.

"I dislocated my shoulder," she admitted.

"You know what we need to do then." She leaned heavily on him as they entered the candle-lit church. They found a stone bench, and she lay on it. He laced his calloused fingers through hers and pulled steadily until she finally felt a wash of relief. He helped her sit and gave her a crooked smile. "So, looks like we're going to be spending the some together. What should I call you?"

The Black Widow blinked. "Call me?" No one called her anything but the Black Widow or her cover since she was a child.

"Yeah. Your file says your name is Natalya Romanova, but what do you like to be called?"

She stopped herself before she confessed she didn't know. She discarded her given name, alternately spat and cooed at her by her masters over the years, as well as the diminutives she vaguely remembered her parents using. "Call me Natasha," she instructed, settling on a name that she had never before used.

"Okay," he nodded, and flashed that crooked little grin again. "Nice to meet you, Natasha. Come on, there's a car behind the church." He indicated a side door with a tip of his head.

The Black Widow surveyed this Clint one more time, and then plunged ahead. There was no going back from this decision. "There's a tracker in my shoulder. I can't get to it myself. We have to get it out or they'll find us." She wasn't supposed to know about the tracker, but even the Red Room itself sometimes underestimated its students. When he didn't spring to action, she hissed, "I need you to cut it out." She brushed her hair out of the way and offered her back to him.

"Okay," he whispered with a nod. He held the tip of his pocket knife in one of the candle flames.

"It's on the right side, between my shoulder blade and my spine."

"I think I see the scar. Here, right?" She felt his finger press lightly, and she nodded. Then she felt the knife slice her flesh. The blade tip probed, and then she heard something drop to the bench. "I got it." She listened as he fished a bandage out of his vest and applied it to the cut. "It's done," he breathed. When she was standing, he dropped a tiny receiver onto the stone floor. "I'm assuming you'll want to do the honors," he commented.

She gazed at him quizzically.

"I mean you'll want to smash it." The Black Widow raised her foot and brought her heel down hard on the device and then looked up at Clint. He nodded approvingly, and she felt the corners of her lips lift a tiny bit. "Welcome to your new life, Natasha."

That wasn't it, of course, she smiled ruefully to herself as she came back to the present. When Clint offered her an escape, her motivation was survival. She didn't trust Clint or SHIELD or the U.S. government, but she reasoned they couldn't be worse than the Red Room. And the Red Room was trying to kill her. There was still a long road before she saw Clint and SHIELD as anything other than the lesser of two evils.


End file.
